


Jazz for Broken Hearts

by legbeforewatson



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Betrayal, Conversations, Depression, Disappointment, Ex-Boyfriends, Friendship, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legbeforewatson/pseuds/legbeforewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Perth test, Alastair and Jimmy converses – uncovering old wounds they had left behind in Australia seven years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jazz for Broken Hearts

Alastair Cook has a terrible habit that he seemed to involuntarily inflict on other people. Though the whole doing consisted of only him – it never failed to win the concerns of those closest to the England captain, most especially Jimmy Anderson. That’s why the Burnley man is _once_ again crouched over the sprawled batsman – arms and legs apart – who looked as if he was about to make a snow angel on the colourless hotel room carpet. The voice of Billie Holiday echoed through the room, her voice miserably lining the walls with the sentence ‘ _good morning, heartache’_ incessantly repeated. Alastair loved his jazz – not omitting the ones that could easily convince someone that the end of the world is nigh.

“Leave me alone to die,” Alastair groaned melodramatically – eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Are we still with this _bullshit_?” Jimmy leered, watching his best friend’s desperate open posture – as if ready for sacrifice. “You’ve been saying that for the past four years and not one of those years did we listen to you,” he adds, sharply.

Alastair moaned as if dying or in great pain, reaching for his phone that had been plugged on to the stereo and turns up the music as soon as he hears the oboe melody of the next track welcomed the chorus. ‘ _Trouble is a man…’_ the speaker wails and Alastair mouths along indiscriminately.

“For fuck’s sake, Ali – this has to _stop,_ ” Jimmy snaps and grabs the phone out of his hand, determined to shut off this pity party yet settled for reducing the volume. “Every time you fail to produce out on the field you bring up Freddie and your break up as if that is remotely relevant to your issues.”

Alastair hasn’t said much besides the odd whine or whimper, but this time he does speak up, “Ever since he left, I’ve been heading for the dogs.”

Jimmy sighed, knowing well that Andrew Flintoff’s departure from Cooky’s life was sudden – he left quietly, like a thief. He’s heard the story many times over but still can’t pinpoint where it all went wrong. He simply remembered his Captain’s haunting words the night Freddie left: ‘ _What lie can I tell myself this time?’_

“And what about 10/11 – is that by chance then or just a glitch in your theory?” Jimmy argued, fondly tapping the England captain’s forehead with his index.

Alastair quiets momentarily, the defects in the old 1930s recording quality even more noticeable now that silence was between them. “Luck, pure bloody luck. I didn’t have the same finesse as I did when I first entered the squad,” he mumbled suddenly.

Alastair doesn’t like to think that he was ever able to function without the support of Freddie Flintoff – that was near taboo. He was his first everything: captain, lover, boyfriend – it was a fixation that shackled Alastair into the thinking that he was still the 21-year old upstart that Freddie Flintoff (and by default, Steve Harmison) took under his wings nearly eight years ago.

“Well, let’s not forget you’re getting older now…” Jimmy grinned, a running gag both he and Swanny had shared whenever Alastair brings up talk of the “yester years” as if he had passed the better days of his career.

“I’m still not the youngest captain,” Alastair murmured.

“Beefy doesn’t count does he? His stint was shit. And Gower… is _Gower_. You can’t be better than _everyone_ else, Cooky…” Jimmy teased, having plenty of these stock condolences when it came to his best friend; they seemed to mollify him if nothing else. 

Though Alastair played the shy, modest and awkward leader in public, he was a horrible perfectionist who had been groomed throughout his childhood to surpass the very best. He had read _The Art of War_ one too many times since his father gave it to him as a child and refused to continue his music, claiming he had no time when in reality he simply could not handle the idea of being mediocre. (Though Jimmy wouldn’t call playing the clarinet, saxophone, piano and singing for St Paul’s mediocre, mind you – especially in comparison to that _soi-disant_ music snob husband of his.)

Alastair doesn’t answer, his mind reeling back and forth between the Ashes he virtually won single-handedly and the Ashes he experienced the utmost pain over. For an English cricketer, nothing hurt more than a whitewash by the Aussies. It was the most humiliating moment of his career that he still shared with three of his current teammates: Jimmy, Belly, and KP. For a long time they had never talked about it, but moments like this made Alastair consider bringing it up if only to learn from their mistakes.

As if seven years ago had come back to haunt, they went from favourites to casualties in a matter of overs. Additionally, the loss of Trotty to stress reverberated Trescothick’s leave from deep depression. And like his predecessor, he became completely disoriented when under pressure. But never mind, he shook his head, what was the use of parallels if it only resonated memories of letdown? He was older and wiser (he supposes) – long gone were the days where he needed his captain to sit by his bed when he was ill or give him a hug before a (hopefully) long day at the crease.

“You alright?” Jimmy broke the silence when Alastair had been quiet for too long.

The Essex native wanted to put up a front for ease's sake but decided it was time Jimmy shared in his pain, “Do you still think about seven years ago?” 

Jimmy instinctively quiets, the question ringing in his ears as if toying with his mind. Cooky’s trusted playlist had now moved to Frank D’Rone’s _Everything Happens To Me_ – a passive aggressive contemplation of a man’s relationship with the miseries that continue to befall him. The almost sort of mysticism of it all suddenly nauseated him.  

“What the hell are we listening to?” Jimmy grumbled, reaching for Alastair’s phone once again as he absently scrolled through the various tracks.

“Do you?”

Jimmy’s reluctance to answer wasn’t only down to the fact that he had buried that series long ago. No, he had also sworn to forget a certain occurrence in order to protect those he loved – and by that he meant Cooky.

“Sometimes,” Jimmy relented, “But I prefer not to.”

“Failure is a part of life, isn’t it? Even one that rang five times over,” Alastair mused.

“Are we really going there, Ali? I thought you out of all people wouldn’t resurrect that corpse,” Jimmy muttered.

“Might as well join the craze,” Alastair sounded almost mischievous and Jimmy is suddenly wary, fearful even.

“What are you talking about?”  

Alastair had always known what Jimmy played at. He had let it remain an open secret for so long that he’s not quite sure it even mattered once it was all out. The cricket was only a scratch on the surface; there were plenty that they had never dealt with seven years ago. Strangely enough, Cooky understood why it happened and why he is now the way that he is. He owed it all to Jimmy.

“I know what you did, Jimmy.”

Jimmy froze in his position, having now sat cross-legged next to the lying Alastair. He runs a hand through his newly groomed hair, feeling it prickle his palm and fingers before he rests them on the nape of his neck, massaging nervously. He looked over to Alastair who neither looked distressed or disappointed – more jaded than anything.

“I know you slept with him the night after Adelaide,” Alastair reassured, making sure they were both on the same page, “I’ve always known.”  

Jimmy was still taken aback, the new information buzzing through him like a couple of pints too many. No, they weren’t friendly then – in fact, they were rivals at county level and had a few unpleasant run in’s with each other. Time in Australia had brought them closer though, realising they shared more in common than they thought – including the kind of men they were attracted to.

“Why didn’t you confront me?” Jimmy sounded rather annoyed, but he was mostly ashamed.

Alastair reflected for a moment before he replied, “Because we didn’t need the drama back then.”

“And we do now?” Jimmy retorted.

“I want you to feel what I did then,” Alastair said, eerily calm.

“You can be very cruel, Ali.”

“Maybe,” Alastair exhaled, “But most of all I’m thankful.”

“For what?”

“That you did it. That Freddie did it, even,” Alastair shrugged as he sat up, “I ended up focusing on my art instead of dwelling on petty relationships.”

Jimmy snorted, “That’s why you spent the last four years contemplating on what if’s, right?”

“He’s only the love of my life,” Alastair turned to Jimmy, “How about if I do the same to you?”

“You’re not attracted to Swanny.”

“No, I may not have some silly teenage crush like you did with _my_ ex, but I couldif I wanted to.”

“Graeme is not like that,” Jimmy sneered.

“Are you saying Freddie is?”

Jimmy wanted to be nasty out of spite, just to show Cooky what a brat he could be. Truthfully, he loved the batsman too much for that. Most of all, the guilt never did leave him, so he’d take any chance for a clean slate. Yes, he had slept with Freddie behind Cooky’s back during that dreaded tour and too many times he had wanted to tell Alastair. But like the urn, he had left it behind in Australia.

Their streak of success had concealed any chance of skeletons revealed – especially one that could ultimately destroy both his friendship with Alastair and his relationship with Graeme, having never told the latter. Now that disaster is once again a familiar sight, Australia would make sure he takes back the wrongdoing he abandoned there this time.

“There were two of us, Ali, that’s all I’m saying.”

Alastair considered the expression on Jimmy’s face – defensive, but there was undeniable apprehension in his eyes. Truthfully, he had long forgiven Jimmy. It was a bizarre time for all of them back then and whatever comfort Freddie found in Jimmy, he was oddly grateful for. It probably lessened Freddie’s stress and whom is he to deny him of that, especially considering his position then.

“I don’t care anymore, Jimmy,” Alastair stands, back stiff and he stretches to rid of it. He then unplugged his phone, abruptly stopping the music. “I’m tired of trying.”

Jimmy knew anxiety came with being the face of England cricket but only now did he realise just how exhausted his friend looks. He had hopes of leading his country once – still, maybe – but knowing how prone to melancholy he is, he would have crumbled long before. Anyway, he was neither Southern, a batsman, or a public school alumnus.

“We still have five days to make up for our mistakes,” Jimmy offered, attempting to instil any positivity in Alastair, which had seemingly left the man for good.

“We were done the moment Gabba folded,” Alastair smiled ruefully, “It was always theirs to begin with. We’re just passing custodians every now and then.”

Jimmy felt obliged to protest but the words could not form no matter how much he tried. By now he’s stood up as well, eye level to Alastair who looked serenely complacent.

“Any children abandoned by their parents have the right to be angry.”

“I thought that was America?” Jimmy quipped with an equally apologetic smile.

Alastair can’t help but let a small laugh escape, shaking his head, “We should be proud they grew up strong.”

Jimmy snorted, “Kev was right. You’re such a masochist.” 

“I like it hard,” the Captain’s eyes twinkled with something as he replied to which Jimmy just rolled his eyes over. His best friend can be such a whore.

“He would know.”

“I slept with your man, you slept with mine,” Alastair grinned, “Though I didn’t quite sleep with him while he was still with you. I never got to that level yet, mind you.”

Jimmy frowned at that, “You’ve wrecked plenty of homes, Ali – including your own.”

Alastair doesn’t respond to that, instead he clasped a hand on his best friend’s shoulder and managed a small, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For sleeping with Kevin.”

“Time has healed,” Jimmy shrugged.

“So will it for this, right?” Ali tilted his head, as if an innocent child.

Jimmy just nodded and gave his best friend a reassuring smile, the slow tune of Alastair's favourites lulling them to their slow descent from a slow yet successful climb that started in this very place, seven years ago.


End file.
